


Carmen Novum - A New Song

by wcdarling



Series: Carmina [3]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Ancient Rome, Classical References, Horace | Horatius Flaccus, M/M, Poetry, Romance, Vampires, ancient vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wcdarling/pseuds/wcdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formosus the poet. Marius the lover. A poem brings them closer. A new song begins. Time tune your lyre. Bonus: The poetry of Horace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third story in the long Carmina* series and mostly devoted to the relationship between Marius and Formosus. I have also dedicated space to ancient Roman poetry. At the time I was writing this, I was reading Horace, a great poet of the time. 
> 
> *[Carmina](http://archiveofourown.org/series/491026)  
> This series of stories -- the first real fan fiction I ever really attempted, in about 2000 -- focuses on Marius and a new male character of my invention. The main focus of this story is the notion of vampires' relationships to the times in which they lived as mortals and their relationship to the centuries as they pass. Includes historical fiction, romance, poetry, and light slash. Most of the action takes place post-TVA but certain aspects of that story are ignored. I will be posting this entire series to AO3 over times, one story cycle at a time.
> 
> My creative inspiration in writing these stories came from several sources: 1) Pandora, a lovely and underrated novel, 2) the poems of Horace, who lived during Marius' mortal lifetime, 3) the film Gladiator (as historically inaccurate as it is); 3) and study of Roman history. And though there is MUCH historic and literary inaccuracy in this I am sure, well, sorry, I was having fun.
> 
> I confess I was on the fence about even sharing this series on AO3 it's rather embarrassing to me now (OMG, is it ever!!!!) but yeah... I will be posting this entire series to AO3 over times, one story cycle at a time.
> 
> Spoilers  
> Virtually none, but action takes place post-Armand. I definitely recommend reading the [Carmina series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/491026) in order. 
> 
> Categories  
> Romance, Poetry, Dreams, Historic Fiction
> 
> Rating  
> PG  
> Also, OC is a teenager in appearance ONLY.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius begins to feel neglected; is modern poetry really that good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for general notes. 
> 
> For more about the Roman poet Horace, see [my appendix, "The Poetry of Horace"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7453786/chapters/16938025).

As Marius opened the French doors and entered the living room, he was not surprised by what he saw. Formosus was stretched out comfortably on the divan, reading yet another book of poetry. Turning the pages, he hummed a song under his breath. Marius listened to it carefully and smiled; it was the theme from a symphony he had played for Formosus on the stereo the night before.

"Enjoying your reading?" Marius asked quietly as he lowered himself to a spot at the end of the divan.

Formosus gracefully curled up his legs to accommodate him. The book closed and fell into his lap. "Yes, Marius, very much." Crisp, clear words, spoken in English, although the Latin accent was still there.

Since the accident a few days before, Formosus had remained weak and he had refrained from going out into the city. He wasn't afraid of another accident, he had told Marius and the others, but he felt he needed some rest. Rest for him meant reading. Marius noticed a stack of books on the small table. He must have read half a dozen books tonight alone. His eyes lingered on the books and did not turn back to Formosus.

"What is it?" Formosus asked, lapsing into Latin and reaching for Marius' chin, turning his head, meeting his eyes. He looked down at the book in his lap and quickly picked it up and put it aside, on top of the other books. "I have been leaving you alone too much."

Marius nodded. "I apologize for... bothering you. I know perfectly well how to get along on my own. But I do miss you. I realize you are weakened, but in the past few days we seem hardly to have spoken. You read and read. You have had more of these poets - mostly dead - than you've had of me."

Formosus swung his legs to the ground and stood to face Marius, who sat abjectly, looking up at him. "Then I will stop. I am sorry, Marius. I have not been feeling quite myself. I think that somehow the fire damaged me, affected my mindset. I got myself through it but afterward, I felt as if I needed to retreat. I am sorry if I went too far."

"No, I understand. And we have all the time in the world..." Marius stopped, his words suddenly lost between sobs.

Formosus kneeled down and took Marius in his arms. "No tears, no tears. I am sorry. I understand. You want to be with me. I want to be with you. Do not worry, I have snapped out of it. I am well. What would you like to do? Travel? Take me to an art museum? Play around in the bedroom?"

Marius' eyes were still clouded with tears as he let out a laugh. "Yes - all of those things. But first, tell me what you think of all this poetry." He motioned towards the table.

Formosus pulled up a chair and settled himself into it before replying. "It is amazing. Absolutely amazing. I gather that in this day and age poetry is supposed to be dead, something no one reads, a dying art... but there is so much out there that is good, do you know that? From this time, from this century, from last century, the one before that. I feel I have missed much."

"Who are your favorites?" Marius asked, curious.

"Oh, so many. I have been reading American poets, British poets, German poets... I have even read some Chinese poetry in translation... very elegant and spare. Forceful. There are several poets I am particularly drawn to, even though they do not share that much in common. Auden, as you know. Whitman. Allen Ginsberg."

Marius chuckled. "Actually there is one thing that all three of those authors have in common."

"Beyond being poets?"

"Oh, yes, Formosus. All of them are, no, _were_ , men who loved other men."

"Aaaah..." Formosus sighed. "I did not know that, but of course, I am not surprised. I am a poet and I am the same way, am I not?"

"You are." He leaned forward and kissed Formosus on the cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Formosus is feeling inspired and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for general notes. 
> 
> For more about the Roman poet Horace, see [my appendix, "The Poetry of Horace"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7453786/chapters/16938025).

Formosus blushed. "What do you know, Marius? I think sometimes I should have been born a girl."

"Oh, no, never a girl. You are far too pretty as a man." Another kiss, this one lingering and rising up to the ear. A tiny nibble, followed by a groan of pleasure.

"Yes, of course you are right. I am happy as I am." Formosus rose from the chair and scuttled back onto the divan, wrapping his arm around Marius' shoulders. He gave a squeeze. "And guess what?"

Marius turned. "What?" He couldn't resist another kiss; this one to the lips.

Formosus smiled and laughed softly. "Oh, Marius, I do so enjoy your affections. But seriously, I have decided on something else to do besides reading."

Marius waited expectantly. This creature might want to do anything, the world was so enormous and new to him.

"Are you ready?" Formosus asked excitedly. Marius nodded. "I think… I would like to write some poetry."

Marius' face registered a look of surprise. "You're going to write again? 'Lucius Socius Cordatus' will put pen to paper?"

"Yes, Marius, yes! That is exactly it. I have no idea what I will say. I have no idea what I will do with the poems either. Certainly _you_ will read them. As for the world… I don't know. But I am inspired, I can feel it. Do you have the paper? A, ugh…" Formosus looked puzzled suddenly.

"A pen?" Marius laughed suddenly. He realized that Formosus had probably not written anything on paper since the turn of the first millennium. "Yes, you will need a pen. I will bring out several options and you may choose which one suits you. Probably a fountain pen will be most comfortable for you. The other pens, the modern pens, will glide too quickly."

"Very well, then set me up right now!" Formosus rose and Marius followed him into the study.

Marius went to a bookcase and drew out a large, blank writing notebook, bound in dark brown leather. Formosus took a seat at the large, expansive writing desk. Marius presented him with the notebook and a pen case. He drew out the fountain pen and, taking another piece of paper from a drawer, demonstrated how it was used. Formosus nodded.

"Marius, I feel I'm about to embark on one of my illuminated manuscripts. So formal! Could you perhaps make the machine play some of that wonderful music you played last night? I enjoyed that very much you know."

Marius left the room and soon Beethoven's last symphony was filling the air with passion. He thought briefly of Sybelle, who was with Armand and Benji, visiting another city. "Apassionata" was beautiful, but it was good to be able to choose another tune.

Returning to the study, he found Formosus already on the second or third page of the notebook, his hand drawing across the pages with amazing speed. Marius peered over his shoulder to catch his words. He recognized the handwriting as that of a Roman scribe, clear and precise, yet executed with incredible speed. In the matter of all Latin writing, there was no punctuation and even in their clarity, the letters appeared as the proverbial "chicken scratchings." Marius had not seen anyone, save himself, write this way since Roman times.

"It is coming to me, Marius, coming as it's never come before. Make sure to time me, to make sure I don't sit here all night. I don't want to neglect you." Formosus spoke without turning his head, without pausing. He turned a page quickly and the scratching sound of the pen continued.

"Believe me, I will stop you when I think you've written enough. You can't expect me to simply _look_ at you all night, can you?"

Formosus laughed as he kept on writing. "No, Marius, I can not expect that. And believe me, the desire in me is strong. Presently I am taking out that desire on this piece of paper."

"I shall let you continue then," Marius said quickly, leaning to deliver another kiss. He smiled and stepped out into the hall. He turned, entered his bedroom, and surrendered to the sea of pillows and comforters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius pays a visit to Antioch... in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for general notes. 
> 
> For more about the Roman poet Horace, see [my appendix, "The Poetry of Horace"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7453786/chapters/16938025).

Marius found himself in his old home in Antioch. How was this possible? He was dreaming, he knew, but why now? Then he remembered. Yes, of course, you were thinking about how Formosus was writing the way you used to write, the way all educated people used to write. He knew those times. You knew those times. Those times have passed.

These realizations took but an instant. He looked around the large living room, as always, full of books. The sound of the fountains bubbling from the gardens. Oh, that had been a splendid house. Pleasant, clean, beautiful.

He heard voices coming and instantly he recognized his boys. This dream must have been set in the early days. These were the very same boys who had protested so strenuously when Pandora, still a mortal, had made her grand assault. They appeared in the lamplight, lovely as always. They asked if there was anything he required.

"No, my sweets," he said gently, knowing he was only dreaming and there was nothing he required so much as the time to continue dreaming. The boys disappeared from view.

Marius rose from the couch. He glanced out into the garden and spied another figure. Flavius. Oh, but what had become of him! This was a dream, of course, or why else would the scholar-servant be glowing in the moonlight? He had been transformed. He was no longer mortal.

Marius had ejected Flavius from the house the very night that Pandora had made him. He had not been so much angry as hurt. He had loved Flavius, but he could not share. He had been so fragile, so needy. And what had become of Flavius? He had no idea, although he guessed he had been destroyed, either by his own choice or by Akasha.

A delightfully sad thought occurred to Marius. Flavius would have loved Formosus. He was a lover of boys, was he not? And a scholar! They could talk poetry in between kisses. Maybe it's better he's not around.

Marius approached Flavius, who stood by the fountain of Venus.

"My faithful Flavius," said Marius in greeting, using the old Latin.

"Marius!" He turned suddenly. He hadn't seen Marius until this instant. "You are here! I had thought you were gone, out with Pandora. I was merely visiting."

"Tell me, Flavius, are you well with the Dark Gift?" Marius asked. He didn't know if he spoke with a ghost, a dream, or his own fantasies.

"I am doing well enough. My courage remains. And I am so strong, no longer dying. My only wish would be…"

"That you had your missing leg?"

Flavius looked down. The ivory leg was still there, beautifully carved but a strange thing to see on an immortal. He laughed. "Yes, I wish that… although in a way, it makes me feel more human. I have something to humble me."

Marius nodded. Flavius had always been wise. He came up to him and kiss him on the cheek. "I wish you well, old friend. Now if you could perform a favor for me… Do you know where I will find Pandora?"

"Ah!" Flavius cried. "You banish me and yet you expect me to remain your servant." He laughed and waved his hand. "I do not mind. I will tell you. Pandora is at the bookstalls, looking for new poetry."

"Thank you." Marius gave Flavius a warm hug and strode towards the gate, into the old city.

In the dream, every detail of that ancient time remained. The streets, the walls, the smells, the color of the sky, the feel of the air. Even the voices of the people were the same. He heard their thoughts in his dreams. He saw the city rolling out before him toward the river. Oh, glorious that he could still see all this so clearly!

Marius walked quickly, not wanting to miss Pandora before the dream ended. He reached the bookstalls and found Pandora in an instant. She was chatting with one of their favorite dealers. As Marius looked up, Pandora smiled and held out a book excitedly.

"New poetry?" he asked.

Pandora nodded her head excitedly. "Not just new, Marius, absolutely splendid. Like Ovid! Imagine, a writer like Ovid." She placed the book in Marius' hands and laughed. "They are love poems."

Even before Marius looked down at the book, he knew the author of those poems. This had actually happened, he knew. One day Pandora had found these poems at the market in Antioch. They were new.

"Lucius Socius Cordatus" he read on the title page. Of course. Formosus' poems. He turned the pages and began to read. Oh, ye gods, but these were passionate! Thinking on Formosus' face, his beautiful shoulders, his very soul, Marius read and read.

Pandora stood by patiently. Finally Marius looked up. "I know this man."

"The author? Oh, then perhaps you should alert the scholars of the world. He is an unknown, a patrician from Maracalas. He has no history, no following, and in fact they say he is dead. The poems were found after his death. You knew him?"

"Yes," Marius replied slowly, noting the way the world was falling out of focus. The dream was ending. He held the book tightly in his hands. Goodbye, Pandora, goodbye Antioch…

The vision faded at last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion. Marius awakens to a new song and an old love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for general notes. 
> 
> For more about the Roman poet Horace, see [my appendix, "The Poetry of Horace"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7453786/chapters/16938025).

He opened his eyes. Another vision, only this one was real. Formosus at the foot of his bed, holding his notebook.

"Have I been sleeping long?" Marius asked drowsily as he rose on his elbows.

"Only an hour," Formosus answered softly. "You were dreaming."

"I was in Antioch." He saw the house, the boys, Flavius, the book in his hands.

Formosus nodded. "I know." He had seen into Marius' mind as he waited for him to wake. "You were thinking of my poems."

"Speaking of which…" Marius gestured for him to begin when suddenly he remembered something. He held up his hand. "Wait a moment!" He went to a cabinet. He turned and held in his hands a lyre.

Formosus was stunned. Did Marius have any idea how dear this instrument was to his heart?

"Yes, I know," Marius said, placing it in the poet's hands. "I know that without it, you feel your poems are incomplete. I feel this, too. So two weeks ago I searched and searched and found one. Or rather, I had it custom made. Such instruments are no longer available in their original form."

Formosus held the lyre in his hands and examined it with a look of wonder. He set it in his arms and drew out the sweet notes. "I… cannot thank you enough." Tears formed in his eyes. More notes. His heart swelled. Marius was back on the bed. He thought of his master, those lost nights, how it had been so much the same.

Finally he shook the past from his mind. He was in New Orleans. It was 2000 later. He was no mortal slave boy. But he did have a lyre, he did have poems to read. He drew the paper before him and began, accompanying himself on the lyre:

> An ancient temple, a temple  
>  Older than I, older than Rome,  
>  Crumbling to dust, amid the  
>  Desert sands of Egypt
> 
> I saw it then, I see it now,  
>  Clear in the mind's eye,  
>  Two millennia gone by now.  
>  I see it standing
> 
> As least as tall as those  
>  Ruined temples of Rome  
>  Of Carthage, of every city  
>  That was glorious
> 
> Now gone or fallen  
>  To ruin, to museums, to books  
>  And now longer used  
>  For worship or prayer or festival
> 
> It is all the same, I think,  
>  The ancient was new,  
>  The new becomes ancient,  
>  And all go to dust.

"That was splendid," said a voice from behind, at the door.

Formosus spun around. Marius was at his feet.

"Pandora!" he cried. Rushing forward to hold her in his arms. She had been gone for several months. He wasn't sure if she had returned or was merely visiting, but for now, he held her tight.

"Thank you," Formosus replied, bowing as he spoke the old Latin. "Lady Pandora, I presume."

"Yes, Formosus," she said, voice smooth as silk. "That poem… only a vampire could have written it."

"Perhaps." Formosus strummed the lyre, not nervously, but for pleasure.

Marius drew back and looked Pandora in the face. "You know."

"Yes, Marius, I have been informed," she said matter-of-factly. "Armand told me." She eyed Formosus. "He is very beautiful. And now you have a companion… who doesn't fight with you."

"Oh, Pandora, why dwell on the bad? We had our good times." Marius sank his face into her hair.

"That was a long time ago. But you're right, why dwell on the bad. I realized that when I wrote my own story out for David. I love you. I wish you had been able to see beyond your optimism, your reason, but still I loved you."

Formosus rose for the bed with the lyre and the notebook. "Should I go now?" he asked, polite but not afraid.

"No, splendid boy, continue with your poetry. Are we not Romans? Who else in the world could possibly appreciate them in their full measure?"

 _No one, no one,_ sighed Marius and Formosus silently. The first chords were struck.

**_The End ... But There Is an Appendix About Horace!_ **


	5. The Poetry of Horace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poem in this story was influenced by the breathtaking poetry of Horace. To learn more about Horace and read samples of his poetry, read on...

 

Written in about 2000:

I'm no Classics scholar, but I have been cultivating a taste in Ancient Roman poetry. I began with Catullus and now I am reading **Horace** , a great poet from the time of Caesar Augustus. The poetry of Horace inspired the poetry in the Carmina, and for this reason I am offering samples of his work below and a short summary of his and work.

 **About Horace**  
Horace (full name, Quintus Horatius Flaccus) lived from 65 B.C. to 8 B.C., making him almost a contemporary of Marius. He lived through the struggle for power in Rome and the disintegration of the Roman Republic under the domination of Augustus Caesar, who brought peace even as he extended the Empire through war and conquest. Horace's works include _Odes_ ( _Carminum_ ),  _Epodes_ ( _Epodon_ ), _Satires_ ( _Sermonum_ ), and _Epistles_ ( _Epistularum_ ). One of the best known of Horace's saying is "Carpe diem" ("Seize the day"). 

 **A Sampling of Horace's Poems**  
These samples are taken from [The Essential Horace](https://www.amazon.com/Essential-Horace-Epodes-Satires-Epistles/), with translations by Burton Raffel of the University of Denver. The book is published by North Point Press, ©1983. No copyright infringement is intended; the author of these pages makes no profit from the re-publication of these works and strongly encourages readers to go out and buy it -- it's a great book!

The translation differs from others you may see in that it is strikingly modern and tries to present Horace's voice as a full man's rather than a dusty old scholar or a preacher, as was the case with previous translations, esp. those from the 17th and 18th centuries.

**From _Odes (Carminum)_**

**IV, 7**

 

> Snow is gone, fields grow green,  
>  Trees open with leaves;  
>  The earth shakes and changes, Spring  
>  Rivers shrink, flow still,
> 
> Nymphs and Graces dance, naked,  
>  Expect nothing to last,  
>  No hour, no year, no gracious day  
>  Fading away.
> 
> Warm winds blow away Winter,  
>  Summer drives off Spring --  
>  Then dies itself, as Autumn pours out  
>  Harvest, and dead Winter is reborn.
> 
> Whatever the skies lose, quick-running  
>  Months repair -- but men, good Aeneas  
>  Or rich Tullus or Ancus king of Rome,  
>  Die and turn to shadows, to dust.
> 
> Who knows if the gods will add tomorrow's  
>  Hours to your time today?  
>  Whatever you give yourself, here, now,  
>  No greedy heir can clutch at.
> 
> Toquatus, once you're buried, once  
>  The Lord of Death has judged you,  
>  Nothing will bring you back, no ancient  
>  Name, no noble words, no one's love.
> 
> Even Diana can't take Hippolytus  
>  Back from the darkness,  
>  Even Theseus can't rip chains  
>  From his friend, beloved, dead.

**II, 18**

 

> No ivory gleams in my house,  
>  No golden ceiling,  
>  No marble beams  
>  Held up by pillars quarried
> 
> In farthest Africa; I am no startled  
>  Heir of a dead king's  
>  Palace, no noble ladies parade  
>  For me in Laconian purple.
> 
> But I am honest, blessed  
>  With a vein of talent, and poor as I am  
>  Rich men court me: there's nothing more  
>  I can pray to the gods for, nor do I beg
> 
> More of my powerful friends,  
>  I'm more than happy with just  
>  This Sabine farm. Day follows day,  
>  The new moon rises, and wanes --
> 
> Yet you, perched at the grave's edge,  
>  Sign contracts for quantitities of marble  
>  And, ignoring death, throw up a palace  
>  And work at pushing the shore further
> 
> Into that thundering Baian sea, as if  
>  The shore were not already more than sufficient.  
>  Why insist on shifting property markers,  
>  Nibbling your neighbors' lands, even
> 
> Leaping across to lands  
>  You rented out yourself? Man and wife  
>  You toss them out, household gods  
>  In their hands, ragged brats at their side.
> 
> Yet Pluto's dark hall, deep in the earth,  
>  Is surely your next home -- hell  
>  In certain for greedy  
>  Landlords. Why struggle for more? The ground
> 
> Open for us all, for poor and rich  
>  And princes alike, and Pluto's ferryman  
>  Is immune to gold, brings no one  
>  Back. Prometheus stays there. And proud
> 
> Tantalus, and all his race, stay in  
>  That prison; call him or not, that ferryman  
>  Comes, and when the poor man's labors  
>  Are done he's ferried to freedom.

**From _Epistles (Epistularum)_**

**I, 5 (excerpt)**

 

> ...  
>  What good are Fortune's gifts, unused? Worry  
>  For what your heir will have and you're halfway along  
>  The road to madness. I'll take the first cup, I'll wear  
>  The first flowers: who cares -- not me! -- how it looks?  
>  Wine was made for miracles, and makes them: it reveals secrets,  
>  Our hearts go leaping high, and higher, cowards run  
>  Into battle, anxiety lifts from our backs, even art opens  
>  Itself. Whose tongue can resist hot wine? Even grinding  
>  Poverty falls away, and a man feels free.  
>  ... _  
> _

**I, 6 (excerpt)**

 

> ...  
>  Go, stare at antique silver, marble statues, and bronze,  
>  And jewelled cups rich with Tyrian pigment, and paintings;  
>  Be happy that a thousand eyes hang on your lips, as you lecture;  
>  Hurry, eager to be rich, and reach the market early,  
>  Be home late, worry because Mutus might make more with what  
>  He acquired by marriage (oh shame, he was born to less!)  
>  And you might end up astonished at him, not he at you.  
>  Whatever is under the earth, time will dig out;  
>  Whatever shines, sooner or later, will be buried in darkness.  
>  Fashionable Rome may love you, today, but tomorrow  
>  You too will descend where even Roman kings have gone.  
>  ...

**I, 16 (excerpt)**

 

> ...  
>  Life is lived, truly lived, when we are  
>  What others think we care. Everyone in Rome  
>  Calls you happy, has known  
>  You happy -- but you, you think  
>  Too little of what you think  
>  Of yourself, Quinctius, maybe you even wonder  
>  If wise men, if good men, are even happy. Maybe  
>  You hear too many voices telling you  
>  You're strong, and you hide your fever -- until  
>  Your hands shake and you sit to eat.  
>  Ulcers can grow on anyone; fools  
>  Powder them over, filled with fake shame.  
>  ... _  
> _

**II, 3, _The Art of Poetry_ (excerpts)**

 

> ...  
>  Order is: I think:  
>  Just this:  
>  Saying, now  
>  What now needs said;  
>  Not saying, now, everything that can be left unsaid for soem other more appropriate time.  
>  Take one part, hold back on another,  
>  And blend words like pigment, slowly,  
>  Cautiously. Be proud  
>  If some clean metal comes up out of the slag heap,  
>  Some tired phrase  
>  Shines. Invent words,  
>  If new ideas need them.  
>  ...  
>  Words from living mouths slide easily into poetry.  
>  Forests turn and change, grow leaves  
>  Drop leaves. So old words die,  
>  While new ones run like boys.  
>  Death will take us all, in the end: no matter  
>  If Neptune  
>  shelters or  
>  sinks  
>  Our ships, or lese some enemy fleet, or if  
>  The soggy marsh, where boats ran, spills out, is tilled and then  
>  Feeds cities, or if  
>  The once-wild river is tamed,  
>  Cherishing trees instead of drowning them --  
>  Everything mortal dies; beautiful  
>  Language is easily broken.  
>  Dead words  
>  shall live  
>  And live words  
>  shall die,  
>  And only the mouth of men can decide.  
>  Only what's said  
>  is said  
>  and therefore  
>  alive.  
>  And therefore  
>  Correct. ...

 


End file.
